Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye
Prologue
The suite was decently sized, brightly lit, with a warm beige color gracing the walls. Black and white art hung above a long black-topped desk running the length of one wall. A petite young woman lay on the bed, a blue sheet pulled up to her chin, her auburn curls framing her face. In fact, this suite had two beds, top of the line. They could even be inclined if one so desired…
…Or it was made necessary to assist the draining of blood and body fluid.
Because this room was not some swanky hotel room, it was an autopsy suite. The art on the walls were not abstract paintings, but radiographs pinned to light boxes. The beds didn't consist of two queen sized, down filled mattresses; but were aluminum autopsy tables, outfitted with plumbing and raised edges to contain fluid.
And the woman on the table was not alive.
She was also not alone. She had been removed from a small refrigerated unit in the morgue by an assistant, and transferred to the table. The assistant was an older man, short, but with a stocky build. He looked up when the prosector walked into the room.
The prosector was younger than his assistant, maybe by ten years, but still middle aged. He was tall, with vivid red hair, and a face lined prematurely. Both men wore serviceable navy blue scrubs covered by light blue surgical gowns and shoe covers, and greeted each other with inclined heads.
"Right on time, Mike," said the assistant, while reaching for a body block to place under the cadaver's back.
"Jane Doe number 2 for the day, John?"
"By my count," John sighed, knowing this one would take much longer.
Michael Delray's gloved hands reached up to properly place his clear plastic face guard while walking with muffled footsteps toward the table.
"Let's see what we've got here," he murmured. In his peripheral, he could see John moving about, taking measurements of the body, and saying them aloud into the voice recorder. As the prosector, Mike was the one to actually do the autopsy, of which the first step was the external examination. His eyes were focused in on the female form before him, noting points to pay particular attention to during the exam.
She was not quite lying flat, as she had not died that way. She had been found bound and gagged, each limb tied to a corner of a bed. Rigor mortis had set her arms and legs in that spread-eagle position, but through handling and the need to strap the body down for transport, they had been broken out of it. Her head was turned slightly to the right, and the body block under her was forcing her chest up. There were several abrasions and contusions covering her naked form. Her wrists and ankles showed lacerations and bruising, indicative of fighting against the bonds holding her. Her blood matted brown hair framed a face livid with bruising and what looked like a wound to her temple. Dead green eyes were almost obscured by both pre and post mortem swelling. Lacerations could be seen in several locations, the most glaring examples mutilating her flat abdomen. Seemingly made with a knife or other sharp instrument, the crowning touch on the whole macabre mess was the gaping slash through her neck.
Ear to ear.
In the course of the autopsy, she would be photographed. Every wound and abnormality measured, described, recorded. A Y-shaped incision made on her chest, with the tail extending all the way to the pubic bone. Experienced hands would pull the flaps of skin and muscle back, and cut her ribs. The chest plate removed, her chest cavity would then be examined. After, her organs would be lifted out in one bloc and dissected. In the process of removing her brain, her head would fill with the whine of a Stryker Saw, but she wouldn't hear it.
Everything would be thoroughly recorded, documented by these two men. They did this for a living; one a pathologist, the other a diener. Both analyzed death on a daily basis. They did not investigate murder or look for the why; they looked for the how. Their job was to determine the cause of death- the cause of death for the thousands of citizens to pass over their tables in the course of their careers. Thousands of gruesome images stored in their minds, not allowed to surface unless called upon. They kept the images hidden, in the back of their minds, so they could deal with death, and yet remain in the world of the living. They knew particularly disturbing images were always harder to hide, harder to keep hidden. And they both knew that this was one of those images.
Mike paused before the first incision, scalpel poised in double-gloved hand, and could not stop himself from taking in one last view of the sinister artistry someone had already inflicted on this Jane Doe's skin. He glanced once more at the part he knew would ingrain itself in his mind: below one deep, ragged slash just above her right breast, scrawled across her abdomen with a knife, were the words,
'COME BACK, LISA'
AN: I seriously hope you are asking questions. The answers will come in good time, all in good time... This is my first Red Eye fic and I plan on having a ton of fun with it... (muahahaha) Please review for me, I am open to all criticism :)
Special thanks to Imshi for being amazing and proofreading this!